Nil By Mouth
by hobbitsdoitbetter
Summary: Three bedsides. Three vigils. Three loves- And only one is unrequited. Short, angsty. Some character death.
1. Nil By Mouth

_Disclaimer:_ This fan fiction is not written for profit and no infringement of copyright is intended. Not beta read so all mistakes are mine.

* * *

 **\- NIL BY MOUTH -**

* * *

Meat Dagger's already there by the time Sherlock finds her.

He's sitting by her bedside, her hand in his.

He's watching Molly sleep. Smiling at her softly as the hear monitor beep-beep-beeps in the background. As the traffic outside whispers and murmurs through the dark of a London night. There's a women's magazine and a bag of maltesers on her beside locker, her phone tucked carefully into her bag, the screen just poking out. Were he looking at it, Meat Dagger might have seen the five calls Sherlock's made to her, each one of which went to voice-mail before Donovan told him where she was and he'd started his mad dash to get here-

Sherlock stares at the scene before him, ponders the meaning of it as he prepares to disappear as quickly as he arrived.

He can ask the duty nurse her status- Better yet, he can deduce it.

This has the dual attractions of both allowing him to feel clever and negating his need to walk into her room. Look at her. _He's not sure he can bear to look at her like this_ -

At the thought Sherlock nods to himself, prepares to turn away and head into the night. He'll text John and Mary, tell them everything's alright. He might even give Lestrade an update. As he thinks this he flicks his coat collar up, checks through his pockets, his hand closing on his lighter- _He's been dying for a smoke ever since he heard the news-_

"You're a right bastard, do you know that, Sherlock Holmes?"

Meat Dagger's question stops him in his tracks and he frowns.

Turns to look more closely at the man. .

As Sherlock does so he notices his own reflection in the window beside Molly and the mystery of how this cretin noticed him is immediately solved.

Meat Dagger shakes his head- perhaps reading his realisation on his face- before leaning in to brush a strand of Molly's hair from her brow. She frowns in her sleep, twisting uncomfortably and at least Sherlock now knows that she's asleep and not comatose.

Meat Dagger's action causes a twist of emotion in Holmes' belly though, one which he likes not at all. It's one thing to be worried when he hears a friend has been hit by a car, it's quite another to get all touchy-feely at the notion of someone else laying hands on her. As if reading his reaction once more- _repugnant thought_ \- Meat Dagger smiles. Eyes him.

"Can't help but notice you're not defending yourself," he continues, his tone conversational. "Might lead me to _deduce_ that you agree."

And he smiles at Molly.

At this Sherlock rolls his eyes. Sweeps into the hospital room.

He looks down his nose at Meat Dagger, pouring ever ounce of cynicism he can into his stare. (This is, he has it on the best authority, rather an impressive sight.)

"Take it from a professional," he drawls. "You're not _deducing_ anything about me, Meat Dagger-"

Sherlock expects the other man to become angry- upset- at the nickname and the moment it memorialises. His soft, gentle heart might have been perfect for Molly Hooper but it's not going to protect him from Sherlock Holmes. _Nothing will protect him from Sherlock Holmes_. If he's put out by his words though, Meat Dagger doesn't let on. He doesn't show it, oh no.

Rather he leans back in his chair and crosses his arms over his chest.

He eyes Sherlock as he does it, the attempt at nonchalance irritating the detective in some way he can't quite define.

"What are you doing here, Mr. Holmes?" he asks instead. "I didn't call you, and I know nobody else in the hospital did, so why are you here?"

"Why are _you_ here?"

Sherlock turns the question around, making sure to sound bored. To sound unimpressed. He refuses to acknowledge how childish his reaction is.

Besides, he will not have this imbecile thinking he has… deduced things about him.

Meat Dagger's voice gentles though. His expression too. He looks at Molly again and there's something so tender in his gaze. It makes Sherlock grit his teeth on general bloody principles. "I'm still her in case of emergency person," he says quietly. "She never got around to changing it, even after we…"

And he lets his voice trail off. Squeezes her hand.

Sherlock finds it infuriating.

"After you dumped her?" the detective asks in a tooth-rotting, treacly tone. "After you ended your engagement and broke her heart?"

And he shoots the other man his Psychopath Smile, the one everyone's so afraid of.

 _Best let the other man have no doubt that he knows well what was done to Molly Hooper._

Meat Dagger though, he doesn't react as Holmes expects. No, rather he looks at him like he's the idiot in the room and lets out a short snort of laughter.

"Is that all you've got?" he asks. "Is that what the Great Detective's come up with? That _I_ dumped _her_?"

Sherlock resolutely tells himself that he isn't sputtering, even as the words tumble haphazardly out of his mouth. "Of course you dumped her," he says, his tone disbelieving. "She'd never have let you go, she's not got that sort of cruelty-"

"-Even if she'd known she's not in love with me?"

And Meat Dagger smiles, a sad, wan smile.

At these words Sherlock blinks, surprised. Shocked actually.

There's something awfully uncomfortable about hearing such a bald statement coming from the man it's about.

"She dumped me," the other man continues quietly. He's staring at Molly awfully hard. "After your mate John's wedding, she just took me aside and told me she wanted to back out." He shakes his head. "It came out of nowhere, absolutely nowhere."

He shrugs.

"Given that, what was I supposed to do?"

Sherlock tries to find his voice, recover his equilibrium. He will not allow this idiot to set him off balance. And yet- "Why?" he demands, and it's none of his business, none of his concern.

He has no justification for asking, he knows that- But then it's never stopped him before.

Meat Dagger's smile is mirthless though. It makes him look older. Sterner. "Her version?" he says. "She couldn't marry someone she was willing to stab with a fork." His eyes flash. "You remember her stabbing me with the fork, don't you?" He snorts. "Course you do- She was trying to keep me from making a berk of myself in front of you."

His eyes turn dark. Faraway.

"My version?" he continues, and his voice hardens. Becomes almost mocking. For the first time it occurs to Sherlock that this man would probably like very much to thump him.

"My version is that she was still in love with a self-obsessed drama queen who wouldn't give her the time of day and yet won't let her get a life of her own-"

He leans forward, drops his voice to a whisper.

"In case you didn't deduce it, Mr. Holmes, that means you."

And without any warning he stands. Makes to move away. It's only now he's on his feet that Sherlock notices his unsteadiness, thinks to wonder whether he's had a drink or something else tonight. He drops Molly's hand sharply onto her blankets and it's entirely asinine but Sherlock feels a tiny thrill of alarm, as if she'll be hurt by the action (though this is, of course, ridiculous.)

His reaction must show on his face though for Meat Dagger's eyes narrow. His gaze turns probing. Searching.

And then he throws back his head and laughs out loud.

"You poor bastard," he says. "You haven't the first clue what to do about her, have you?"

Sherlock is affronted by the tone, the snideness of it. _Who is Meat Dagger to think he understands him?_

"I don't know what you're talking about," he snaps stiffly. "I merely wished to ascertain whether a dear friend was alright, after-"

"After nearly being killed by a drunk driver?" Meat Dagger supplies. "If it was a drunk driver and not that Moriarty bloke from off the telly." His expression twists with distaste. "Another prize bit of friendship, that, Mr. Holmes," he says. "Getting her mixed up with that psychopath…"

And before Sherlock can say anything he's on his feet, pushing his way out of the hospital room. He's rather unsteady on his feet but Sherlock doubts it's drink this time. He doubts that very much.

"Take care of yourself, Holmes," he says, and his tone makes it sound more like a threat or a curse. "It is, after all, what you're best at. And try not to get our girl killed, there's a good man…"

With that he's gone, head down. Hurrying.

His gait sways slightly, his face turning puce with emotion as he heads for the list.

Sherlock sits down. Takes his place. Stares at Molly. _Beautiful, beautiful Molly._

Slowly, he takes her hand.

Slowly, he squeezes it.

She frowns in her sleep and he brushes her hair from her brow. Allows himself to imagine that he's a right to this place.

Tomorrow when she wakes up he'll be gone, pleading a case and his adventures and all sorts of security issues- All sorts of fun and deductions and games afoot-

But here and now he can be with her, and he tells himself that will have to do.


	2. Pro Re Nata

_Disclaimer:_ This fan fiction is not written for profit and no infringement of copyright is intended. Not beta read so all mistakes are mine. There is one more chapter to this, methinks. And thanks for their reviews go to incomprensibile, likingthistoomuch, Emma Lynch, Bekah1218 and Aphraelsan.

* * *

 **\- PRO RE NATA -**

* * *

Sherlock's already there by the time Molly finds them.

He's standing, swaying, his hair tussled. The knuckles of his right hand are bloodied and grazed. He's staring at the bed before him and its still occupant, his shoulders hunched, his face turned away from her-

Molly takes a step forward into the hospital room. Makes for the bed.

She wants to take Tom's hands in her own, to touch him while she can. While he's still breathing. (She knows he won't be doing so for long, Moriarty's bullet saw to that).

Sherlock hears her coming in. Turns, sees her. His skin is grey and clammy, his eyes bloodshot, the irises mere pinpricks. There's a tremor to his hands and his expression is wild. Lost.

 _He's high,_ she realises. _He's completely bloody stoned._

 _Is that why she couldn't get through to him when the threat came through to her phone?_ she finds herself thinking. _Is that why he's been missing all bloody day?_

Molly stares at him in shock, in anger, unable to quite handle the ball of fury which rises within her- unable to quite understand why it's even there-

"It was supposed to be Janine," he says, and his voice is slurred. Slow. His tone suggests that Janine's presence in that hospital bed, rather than Tom's, would make it all ok. He shakes his head as if he's trying to clear it but it does no good, it merely causes him to slip, makes him catch himself on the bedside locker.

"I set it up," he's saying, "they were supposed to believe- They were supposed to look away from-"

And he presses the heels of his hands to his eyes, curls in on himself.

He keeps muttering about how this wasn't supposed to happen. How it wasn't supposed to be like this.

"I saw to it that Janine got protection," he's babbling, "I made sure you weren't important. I made sure you were kept clear. I knew Moriarty would target a woman I was close to, I made sure it wouldn't be you-"

"But it was me, wasn't it? It was me he targeted- by proxy."

And Molly knows her voice is cold. Harsh.

She can't help that and to be honest right now she doesn't bloody want to.

Because Tom- her Tom- the man she was going to marry- the man whose heart she broke- He's lying before her in a hospital bed, only breathing because of machines, only alive in the barest of terms and she can't do this. She can't take care of Sherlock and his feelings. _She can't, she can't, she can't-_

The thought comes and suddenly, without any warning the tears well up, her breath snatching jaggedly at her throat. Squeezing it. Raking it. Suddenly her chest is tight with sobs and a horrible, voiceless sorrow and she doesn't know why, she doesn't know why she's doing this, she doesn't know why this happened-

 _Oh God, oh God,_ she thinks. _Tom, Tom darling. I'm so sorry. I'm so, so sorry._

Arms come around her, Sherlock drunkenly trying to hold her, to soothe her. His balance is shaky, his body trembling with the force of the chemicals running through it but he tries. She can feel him trying. Their combined upset and weight is too much though, they stagger and land against the edge of Tom's bed, Sherlock barely staying upright, Molly splaying against him. He's murmuring to her, telling her it's alright, it's alright, he's got her, he's got her-

She pulls back, about to tell him she's ok but when she looks at him something… Something catches in him.

She hears his indrawn breath, sees him freeze. Grow still.

She's about to ask what he wants- what he's realised, even- but before she can she feels his arms tighten around her, one hand fisting the fabric of her trousers even as he dips his head towards her.

His balance is totally shot and he's pressing against her, his body loose and lax.

And then, then his mouth is on hers, his touch his lips bestow too hungry to be called a kiss, too harsh to be anything else. It burns. It freezes.

It's not like anything she's ever wanted, and certainly not now.

Molly's body jerks, anger and bewilderment moving through her as he sighs and pulls back. Smiles drunkenly at her, as if this one thing has made everything alright. As if that one sloppy, stoned kiss has made everything right between them.

"You're okay," he's whispering, his tone almost happy. Honeyed. He's cupping her face, staring into her eyes. "You've survived, you're still here. You still don't matter, not to anyone else…"

His words act like a switch. The turn of a lock.

Without any warning Molly pushes him away, steps back. She stumbles and her fingers brush against Tom's pale, warm, hand.

Revulsion rises in her, making her startle back. Jerk away. Still high, still smiling, Sherlock follows after her and as he does she feels it again, that ball of rage and hurt and, yes, she recognises it now, disgust at what is happening before her.

With one hand he grabs for her but she dodges; when he tries again she braces both hands against his chest and pushes him away, hard.

He blinks at her, his expression hurt and she can't help it, she can't explain this to him-

"No," she snarls. "No, no, you're not doing this to me, Sherlock. You're not doing this in front of him, in front of me. Being stupid and high doesn't make this bloody ok-"

And she scrambles to the door, takes off to the end of the corridor. She's already pulling out her phone, ringing Meena and asking can she stay at hers tonight.

She thinks Sherlock tries to follow but she can't be certain. She doesn't look back and she doesn't want to.

She curls up on Meena's couch, her heart breaking, trying to keep her sobs quiet so her friend can sleep.

* * *

When she returns to her flat the next morning she finds Sherlock curled up and asleep, blocking the way to her front door.


	3. Si Opus Sit

_Disclaimer:_ This fan fiction is not written for profit and no infringement of copyright is intended. Not beta read so all mistakes are mine. Thanks for their reviews go to likingthistoomuch, incomprensibile, Rocking the Redhead, Bekah1218 and Aphraelsan, and apologies for taking so long to update. RL got busy for a while. Enjoy!

* * *

 **\- SI OPUS SIT-**

* * *

She steps over him to get into her flat that first morning.

She does the same the second morning, and the third.

By the fourth morning she's moved past irritated and onto full-blown annoyance and she shows it: She rings John and asks him to come collect his friend before she calls Lestrade to do it-

Watson turns up at her place with his wife in tow, both looking somewhere between bemused and irritated. They're having trouble meeting Molly's gaze though they greet her amiably enough, John smiling in that apologetic way of his as he asks her how she's been. While her husband tries to rouse Sherlock gently Mary expedites the process by yelling loudly into his ear in what sounds like Russian and blocking the wildly swinging left hook this prompts before kicking him sharply in the side to rouse him further-

"We'll get him back to Baker Street," she tells Molly as Sherlock, still snarling and disorientated, is dragged to his feet by John.

One look at him is enough to tell Molly that he doesn't know where he is, let alone what he's doing.

"When he's had a chance to sober up we'll give you a call, yeah?" John tells her and to this she can only nod, unable to summon any other reaction. She feels tired, bone tired, and she has ever since she heard about Tom's shooting.

The fact that she found out last night that his mother is turning off life support certainly isn't helping her compassion any.

So she opens the door at the end of the landing, waves them off as they clatter haphazardly down the stairs. If Sherlock notices her presence he doesn't give any indication but then he is, quite clearly, completely bloody stoned. And for once in her life she can't bring herself to care: She has no extra energy to give to Sherlock Holmes.

 _She thinks despondently that maybe, maybe, she's finally given him all she can give._

Of course, what she doesn't realise as she watches the detective being manhandled out of her building that this would be the last time she'd see him upright.

It would the last time she'd see him without wires up his nose and bandages holding him together, the last time she would hear that deep, familiar voice, even if it was calling his best friend a git.

The next time they meet he'll be silent, and still, and so unbelievably, infuriatingly fragile that she'll think she wants to smack him silly- Or kiss him until she aches.

But then even if she'd known that, in these current moments of watching him stagger away, she might well not have been able to bring herself to care.

* * *

He drops off the radar in the next few days; nobody knows where he is except, possibly, the Watsons, who have gone on radio silence too.

Mycroft's boys- she knows them well- pay her a visit but Molly can honestly say she hasn't a clue where Sherlock is and while this answer may not please his brother, it is the truth.

Tom is buried in his family plot a month after his shooting; at the request of his parents and siblings, Molly does not attend his funeral though she does take a few days off work.

Mycroft's security team tail her everywhere she goes, even to the graveyard. Even to Tom's tombstone.

She wonders sometimes, idly, how they annotate the sound of her crying when they're writing their reports.

* * *

A few weeks of radio silence from Sherlock and the Watsons turns into a month.

Then two.

Then three.

Molly isn't kept in the loop regarding what they're up to, but she does now have a security detail, as do Tom's parents and Mrs. Hudson.

Closing the stable doors after a horse has bolted seems, she thinks in her more uncharitable moments, to be a Holmes family trait and Mycroft indulges it in fine style.

But there are no more accidents. No more brushes with death. Whether this is the result of Mycroft's intervention or a loss of interest in her by whoever is behind the Moriarty impersonation is anyone's guess. So Molly goes about her days, head down, attention focussed on her job. She can't really bring herself to do anything else.

And then one night Greg calls her and tells her to come upstairs to A&E. Tells her to prepare herself, that she won't like what she finds.

Silent, unsteady she puts down her scalpel and takes off her rubber gloves; her security detail trail her uncertainly up to the second floor.

He's so still when she sees him that for a moment Molly's not sure it's Sherlock.

That skeletal build, that ruined face- It couldn't be the man she knows. _Could it?_

He's laying in a bed, covered in tubes and bruises, looking even more broken and battered than Tom had and in that moment all she can do is stare, open-mouthed and silent, her hands fisting themselves into knots at her sides.

There's no sign of the Watsons- she will later discover that John's waiting upstairs while they operate on Mary- but Sherlock is not alone. No, a tall, elegant, dark-haired woman sits at his side, holding his hand.

She's murmuring to him, calling him her darling boy.

When Molly sees her she freezes, not sure what to do. Not sure how to process this. Before she has a chance to decide though, the woman sees her reflection in the glass of the room's walls and turns in her seat. Looks at her. She's sharply gorgeous: Piercing blue eyes. Icy, pale skin. Her mouth is a slash of scarlet, her hair a twist of onyx which is now, Molly realises, spattered here and there with blood and dust.

In her spike heels and designer white dress, she manages to make it look like a fashion statement.

"So you're Molly," she announces in a drawling, cultured voice. "I'm surprised- I had rather thought Sherlock had created an imaginary friend for himself."

The need to answer snaps Molly out of her stupor.

"Who are you?" she asks, hating how uncertain her voice sounds. How uncertain she feels.

The other woman smiles, as if entertained by her discomfort.

"You can call me… Beatrice," she says, her tone oddly smug, as if enjoying some personal joke. "I did, after all, go down into Hell to find our dear boy, I should get some recognition for my role." She laughs, the sound of it low and smoky. "And, of course, some governmental recompense for my trouble…"

Molly frowns- "You work for Mycroft,"- and this Beatrice snorts again in amusement.

Her eyes twinkle wickedly.

"Not really my area, dear," she says. "The Iceman and I aren't exactly… simpatico." Her smile turns impish. "I dare say he's rather too frightened of me to allow such a thing, though his baby brother here, well… Suffice it to say, The Virgin has no such qualms."

And she turns back to Sherlock, her gaze turning gentle. Tender, almost.

She reaches out and strokes his hair from his brow, leans down and kisses it. The sight of this sets something uncomfortable, no, painful, twisting in Molly's chest. Emotion rises, too much of it, too overwhelming, and she goes to turn, to walk from this room and this sight and this man who has done so much to her-

"You know," Beatrice drawls, "if you're that easy to frighten off then you truly aren't worthy of him."

Molly stops. Turns sharply and glares at the woman.

 _She's not entirely sure she can_ _ **believe**_ _what was just said to her._

"I beg your pardon?" she snaps and the other woman's smile widens. Turns brighter.

"Oh, there she is," she murmurs. "There's the Molly Hooper that Sherlock must be so infatuated with."

Now it's Molly's turn to snort. "Sherlock's not-"

"Oh but he is." Beatrice stands and walks to her, circles her with predatory grace. It feels oddly… compelling. "He spoke of you," she's saying. "Spoke of you even to me. Said he had to find the source of the Moriarty Hoax, had to make sure that whoever it was would be put in the ground- Because of you.

He said he had to protect you."

She makes a show of looking Molly over, her expression clearly communicating that she sees no reason for the detective's apparent devotion.

Not one to be intimidated- at least, not by anyone other than the man in the bed before her- Molly crosses her arms and cocks an eyebrow, glaring back. It's not the first time she's had someone try to bully her and it won't be the last. For a moment Beatrice stares at her, not saying anything, not moving, merely taking stock of an opponent, Molly thinks, though what leads her to that conclusion the pathologist couldn't rightly say-

And then, just as suddenly Beatrice breaks eye-contact. Steps away.

She makes a show of walking around Molly, picking up her back and straightening her dress.

She shrugs her way into a jacket which looks like it cost more than Molly makes in a year.

"Going somewhere?" Hooper asks but she doesn't answer. Merely continues getting herself ready for departure. After a moment she gestures tersely to her former seat.

"Your place is there," she says. "Tell him that my debt to him is paid, when he wakes up- He will wake up."

And with that, Beatrice sweeps around Molly and walks out.

Molly listens to the sharp click of her heels on the floor outside until they fade away.

Slowly, gingerly, she moves in to stand beside Sherlock. To stare at him.

After a moment she takes his hand and takes the place the other woman had vacated.

She's not sure why she does it, she just knows that for the first time in a long time she doesn't want to walk away.

* * *

A/N One more chapter, methinks. Hope you enjoyed.


	4. Primum Non Nocere

_Disclaimer:_ This fan fiction is not written for profit and no infringement of copyright is intended. Not beta read so all mistakes are mine. And here it is, the last chapter. I hope you've enjoyed. Thanks for their reviews go to catsgotmytongue, likingthistoomuch, Bekah1218 and my guest.

* * *

 **\- PRIMUM NON NOCERE -**

* * *

She's there, when he wakes up.

Sherlock opens his eyes and Molly's sitting beside him, curled up in a chair: She's so small that she can actually sleep like that, her feet tucked in underneath her, her pale, delicate hands curled into fists against her chest.

 _She looks,_ hemust admit _, rather… beautiful_.

Her face is relaxed in sleep, breath rising and falling softly. It makes her look rather younger than her thirty-five years, a thought which Sherlock likes not one jot. Her hair has been pulled into a messy bun, tendrils escaping to curl around her shoulders and neck; There are dark circles beneath her eyes, he notes, and she looks thinner than when he last saw her. More frail. More fragile.

This is another thought he likes not one jot; It brings a spasm of something that might be guilt to his chest.

Unwelcome as this is, he forces himself to feel it. To acknowledge it and name it honestly. Sherlock knows that one of his more dangerous qualities is his ability to blind himself to the fallout from his actions, particularly as they effect others. Others like John. Others like Molly.

He will not, therefore, permit himself any sort of easy ignorance in her presence.

After all she's been through- after all he's been responsible for- he can at least do that.

At the thought he sighs, shaking his head to himself and turning away; light sleeper that he knows she is, that must be enough to wake her. She opens her eyes and looks at him blearily, for a moment clearly unaware of where she is right now and he can't help himself-

"You're in Bart's," he blurts out, to have something- anything- to say.

He can't bear the thought of silence.

" _You're_ in Bart's," she rejoins after a moment. "I'm just visiting you." She shifts, straightening out her hands and stretching them above her head in a movement does things which Sherlock tells himself to doesn't notice to her jumper. It pulls the garish wool tight across her breasts, but if she notices his staring she gives no indication.

 _Of course, he muses, she never seems to notice how much time he spends staring at her._

"I was shot," he says, trying to force his thoughts onto something safer. (The irony of that is not lost on him).

"I know," she answers. "Beatrice told me-"

"Beatrice?" For a split second he almost demands to know who Beatrice is and then it occurs to him: Irene with her gift for self-dramatization. _Of course_ she cast herself as some sort of divine saviour when it was her bloody fault he and the Watsons' cover was blown in the first place. _Bloody_ _woman_. A thought occurs and he looks at Molly in alarm-

"Where's John?" he asks. "Did Beatrice say?"

Sorrow moves through Molly's eyes and his alarm spikes further.

"He's upstairs," she says. "Mary was-"

"Taking point." Sherlock speaks over her. Now he remembers. "She was the first in- We thought, with her background- Oh.

 _Oh._ "

He hears it in his head, the sound of a bullet, an explosion of brick and wood beside him. John screaming, Mary's laboured breathing. His friends running, pell mell, through the underbrush of a Siberian forest. A forest he brought them to. _A forest he'd thought they'd die in._ There'd been blood spatter all over his hands. In his hair. It had soaked through his jacket, mixing with his sweat and making his teeth chatter in the cold-

He squeezes his eyes closed: They'd been made and Mary had been the first to be picked off, a sniper taking her out from God only knew how far away.

"They're working on her," Molly says quietly. He feels her hand curl in his and he is so unbelievably, unspeakably, relieved by this one act. "John's upstairs, waiting," she continues. "He had the least injuries of the three of you."

When he opens his eyes she's looked away from him. "He popped in earlier," she murmurs, "but you were still under. I promised him-"

"You promised him you'd stay." Sherlock finishes for her.

 _He knows her so well._

"I'm not here because of John," she snaps and when he looks at her, her expression has

darkened rather alarmingly. She looks- She looks angry.

 _Why would she be angry?_

"Then why are you here?" he asks, because honestly, he doesn't know. He doesn't understand. Even he, the Great Detective, can't guess. He has little memory of how he behaved to her before he left but he knows it was abysmal. He knows he was beastly. He knows he was responsible for her heart-ache, just as he was responsible for poor Tom's entirely preventable death-

"Oh, for the love of God."

He looks at her again and this time she's rolling her eyes. It looks odd- wrong, somehow- on her usually placid face, but she still glowers at him.

"I'm here because I want to be here," she bites out. "I am quite capable of deciding that for myself. So stop huddling inside your Mind Palace trying to work out the answer."

Sherlock frowns. "But- Before I left," he stammers. "The things I said, the things I did-"

"Were horrendous." Her tone brooks no argument- Not that he's inclined to give her one. "You were a self-involved, self-indulgent, utterly repugnant prick to me, Sherlock Holmes. You got high and you hurt me. You got high and you hurt everyone else. You acted like an absolute, complete arse-"

She leans forward.

"And I still chose to be here." She lets his hand go. Folds her arms across her chest. He feels the ache of her hand's loss rather more than he wants to. "So don't make this about John," she's saying. "Don't make it about anyone else. This is about you and me."

"Alright." He agrees but he doesn't understand.

 _He really, really doesn't._

Silence reigns for a moment as he stares at her, but then-

"Why did you kiss me?" she asks, and Sherlock sputters because truly, he doesn't remember that.

He also finds the notion that he kissed Molly Hooper, and he doesn't even remember it, really rather awful.

But he reminds himself that that's not the salient point here. Her question is. For a moment he's tempted to make up some story- anything not to have to tell her that he doesn't remember- but one look at her expression puts paid to that notion.

He wouldn't dare lie to her right now.

Besides, he's lied to her quite enough, he thinks, for one lifetime: Maybe it's time he tried telling her the truth, for once. _So-_ "I don't…"

He stops. Clears his throat.

This is going to be like pulling teeth, he can tell already.

"I don't remember why I kissed you," he says after a moment, and truly, he doesn't. He takes a deep breath. "I suppose it was probably for the usual reason I think about kissing you," he continues and Molly looks at him, her eyes narrowed.

He can tell she knows he's not lying.

"And what reason's that, then?" she asks sarcastically. "Access to the lab? Some spare body parts? Practice for a case, eh?"

Sherlock breathes in sharply through his nose. Tries to calm the knots tying themselves together in his belly. He doesn't want to have this conversation- would rather go back to running through that Siberian woodland, actually- but he knows he has to.

He's known for a long time, deep down, that he has to.

"I imagine kissing you because I want to," he says, his voice almost inaudible.

He's having trouble breathing and suddenly, so is Molly.

While he knows he should probably be proud of himself for that he finds he can't quite bring himself to do so.

"I imagine kissing you," he says, "because the thought of it brings me… It brings me… joy." He shakes his head in frustration. "No, that's not right. That's doesn't sound…" Again he shakes his head in frustration. For a moment he finds himself wishing, randomly, that he had his violin in his hands.

A better tool for communicating sentiment he has yet to encounter.

"Cases bring me joy," he says after a moment. "Mayhem brings me joy. Doing experiments in my pyjamas while having a cup of tea of a Thursday morning brings me joy. The thought of kissing you, however, brings me something… warmer. Sweeter. Stronger."

"Stronger than joy?"

Her voice is faint as he nods.

"Stronger than anything."

He looks at her and she's peering at him so closely he feels like she's prying her way in between his atoms. He squirms in his seat at the thought.

"Stronger than wanting to get high?" she asks and he exhales sharply. Of course, he thinks. Of course she'd ask him that.

 _If anyone would ask him that besides John, it would be Molly Hooper._

"I was angry at myself," he says softly. "I was angry at my own stupidity, and at what it cost you."

She doesn't look impressed, but then he supposes he didn't expect her to. "So you got stoned?" she asks and he nods. No need to deny it.

"I got high," he says. "I got high because… Because I didn't protect Tom and it didn't occur to me that I might need to. I got high because…" He takes a deep breath, makes himself say it.

Say the real, true, shameful reason he's done so much he's done this last year.

"When word came through," he says, "when John came to see me… I thought that it was you who'd been shot. That it was you who'd been left on life-support. That it was you I'd have to see in that bed. And when I realised it wasn't you, it was someone else, I was…"

"Relieved?"

She says the word tentatively, like something from a foreign language.

When he looks at her this time, he can't read her expression; He doesn't know what to make of her and that, he realises, makes him feel quite afraid.

"I was relieved," he says softly. "And disgusted with myself for my relief. Just as I was disgusted with myself for how sure I'd been that I'd protected you before." He tries to sit up straighter but the movement just sends pain knifing through him.

Though he sees a flash of worry move through Molly's eyes she doesn't try to make him sit still.

"I set up Janine as my official partner," he explains because now he's on the road to Hell there's no need to stop and ask for directions. "She had a background in industrial espionage and well, everyone had heard the stories about us. _The Daily Mail_ practically bankrolled her retirement. And I thought that Moriarty's network would take the bait and focus on her- That they'd leave you alone-"

Molly's frowning.

"So that's why I had so little protection?" she guesses.

He nods. Tries to take her hand again though she won't let him. Her fingers are twisting together in her lap.

"I wanted Moriarty focussed on everyone but you," he says. "I knew if I paid you any attention at all that you might end up being hurt, so I kept my distance. I thought that the network would too."

His mouth twists into a grimace.

"But he didn't." She nods, shows she understands. At least, he muses, he can explain this much to her. "He took out Tom for spite," she's saying, "and you blamed yourself-"

"Credit where it's due," he says darkly. "One should accept one's laurels when one earns them."

Molly's looking at him like she thinks he's insane.

"So for the sake of your guilt," she says, "you got high, leaving you and everyone around you- including me- vulnerable-"

Again he grimaces. "Yes, well," he says uncomfortably, "not exactly my finest hour, that. I am aware." He shakes his head at her look. "John, Mary and I had a rather long and rather tedious conversation about it on the flight to Irkutsk, I assure you-"

"You don't need to assure me, I know you're a bloody idiot." And when he looks at Molly now, she's staring at him in a mixture of exasperation and wonder, as if she can't quite work out how he's survived this long (not, again, that Sherlock blames her). She also looks angry as Hell. For a moment he thinks to defend himself, even opens his mouth to do it but then- Then-

She reaches down, once, very swiftly, and kisses his mouth. The contact is quick, teasing, but it is real and he does feel it.

In fact, he feels it down to his toes.

 _He feels it in every part of his anatomy, even those he doesn't mention in polite company._

"Firstly," she's saying, "you're a moron." When he tries to object she kisses him again. It is, he must admit, a rather effective way of shutting him up.

"Secondly," she's saying, "if you ever get high again I'm going to leave and never come back- You do understand that, don't you, Sherlock?"

He nods wordlessly. He's- He's rather surprised about how this is turning out. It's not that he objects, it's that he didn't see it coming. Not at all. And now she's saying- Now she's telling him-

"No more drugs," he says quietly.

"No more lying to me," she corrects him.

He looks at her, stares at her actually, and then nods. Gives his word.

The odd thing is that for once in his life he actually means it.

She stares at him for a long moment, maybe weighing his sincerity, maybe deciding on her own. It lasts so long that he starts to wonder whether he's done something wrong. And then she leans down and more slowly, more tenderly, she kisses him.

She sighs as she does it.

Sherlock sighs too, even as he tries to work out what this means. What just happened between them.

He still doesn't understand it.

But this time when he reaches out and takes her hand, she lets him. When he pulls her to him and apologises she accepts it. She tells him that things will take time but that she's ready to try if he is and when he nods she smiles.

* * *

When John comes down three hours later to break the news of Mary's survival, he finds them both asleep, Molly's body curled up against Sherlock's on his narrow hospital bed.

He walks quietly away and leaves his friends in peace.

* * *

A/N And that's all she wrote, folks. Hope you enjoy!


End file.
